


pictures of patron saints

by motheyes



Series: apotheosis 'verse [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (eventually. not yet.), AU WHERE LMANBURG GOES BOOM AT THE FESTIVAL, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dave | Technoblade and Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Dream Smp, Explosions, Gen, Injury, Permadeath, Realistic Minecraft, Villain Wilbur Soot, big q is so underrated and i have so many thoughts about him so. here, he deserves it, hybrid quackity, mild and non descriptive! just wanna warn people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motheyes/pseuds/motheyes
Summary: All Quackity had ever wanted was a calm, peaceful, welcoming L’Manburg.Where did it go wrong?(or: Quackity faces the aftermath of the explosion.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Floris | Fundy, Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Alexis | Quackity & Niki | Nihachu, Alexis | Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: apotheosis 'verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973764
Comments: 18
Kudos: 143





	1. remind me that i am a fool

**Author's Note:**

> AYYYY IT'S BIG Q TIME
> 
> usual disclaimer: this is about the characters from the roleplay on the smp, not about the actual people!! if i learn this violates boundaries it's getting yeeted. also, this is HELLA canon divergent. i would absolutely recommend reading the other two fics in this series, but basically, this is an au where wilbur blows up l'manburg on the day of the festival. (i create my own angst to ignore canon, yes.)
> 
> title is from "st bernard" by lincoln bc i am obsessed with that song.
> 
> thank you to my friend cyan for betaing :) you're a king.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!! if you do, pls feel free to leave a comment/kudos. it's not necessary but seeing feedback helps me sm. i hope you have a wonderful day <3

Quackity’s leg hurts.

That’s the first thing he’s aware of. It’s not the only thing for long, though; the rest of his body quickly catches up to him in a wave of aching-hurting-burning _pain_. He takes a hacking, coughing breath, his lungs burning along with the rest of him. The inside of his mouth is dry, caked with ash and dust.

His eyes fly open, and he sees the world aflame.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. Or, well, he tries, but his voice refuses to work, and his tongue feels three sizes too big for his mouth. He coughs again instead.

When he tries to scramble to his feet, his calf explodes in pain. The back of his head hits the ground just a bit too hard as he collapses back down. His wings are pinned beneath him uncomfortably, his arms are so sore, and it’s hard to breathe through all the smoke. 

He looks down and - fuck. His leg’s crushed under a rock.

 _You can do this, Big Q,_ he tells himself, doing his best to gather his thoughts into some level of coherency. _C’mon._ _Get yourself together_.

First things first. He examines the rock.

It’s undoubtedly a piece of debris from the explosion. It’s large enough to have pinned his leg, but it’s not _that_ large.

He prods at it half-heartedly, unable to get a good angle on it. Thankfully, just as he was hoping, it moves ever so slightly. Unfortunately, it also sends another wave of _hurt_ up his thigh.

Quackity grits his teeth. He can get out. He just has to push.

Propping himself up on one elbow, he uses his other arm to reach out and shove the rock with all his might. Slowly, painfully, it rolls off his leg. He does his best to choke back tears - it’s hard to tell if he’s successful or not with the dirt that he can feel caked on his face.

With one final heave, the debris clears his leg just enough for him to pull it out. He lays back down again, all his energy gone. Even though it’s free now, his calf still aches, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. It’s almost definitely broken, he thinks, and he heaves a shuddering sigh.

The air is hot and oppressive, and as much as Quackity would prefer to just lay there and never move again, it’s hard to breathe, and he knows he needs to move.

Standing is maybe the hardest thing that Quackity has ever done.

First, he props himself up on his shaking elbows, trying to get his less-injured leg under him. It aches, even if it’s not as bad as the stabbing pain in his left, and he knows it’s going to be covered in purple-black bruises by tomorrow.

Still, though, he presses on, and he manages to get himself up on one knee.

From there, things are a bit more complicated.

He can’t move at all without agitating his definitely-broken leg, and he certainly isn’t going to be able to put all of his weight on it. He needs something to lean on.

Thankfully, the rock that he was crushed under is right nearby.

 _Okay,_ he thinks. _Okay. Almost there._

The surface of the rock is rough and sharp under his dirtied palm, and it presses into his fingers painfully as he shifts almost all of his weight onto that arm. It does its job, though, and then Quackity is standing, precariously balanced on one leg, his fingertips brushing the stone for stability.

Now that he’s upright, he can get his bearings a bit more clearly. To his right is one of Eret’s towers, technically just outside of Manburg’s territory.

Ahead of him is Hell.

He hadn’t realized earlier, but he’s just on the edge of the explosion. He’d thought it was bad where he was, rocks and debris flung everywhere; it’s so much worse in the festering, burning pit below. If he didn’t already know what he was looking at, he wouldn’t be able to recognize it as Manburg’s remains.

After a moment, he forces himself to blink away his wide-eyed shock. He still has to go, go, go, has to get out as fast as possible.

Standing above the carnage, miraculously untouched, is the White House, the Casa de Putas, one last bastion of safety. Quackity doesn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief, but he’s certainly grateful for it.

His first step sends a shockwave up his left ankle and calf and thigh, and he bites back a curse. He ends up limping, _heavily_ favoring his injured leg, and he does his best to lean on anything and everything for just a bit of stability.

Quackity staggers past the scattered rocks and chunks of earth, and once again, he’s thankful that he’s on the outskirts of the explosion. His leg may hurt like a _bitch_ , but at least the ground is solid under his feet, at least the debris is more of a nuisance than a total roadblock.

What’s left of the stage is… certainly a sight. The thin supports that held up the roof must have given out, because the whole thing is collapsed entirely, broken blackstone spilt over the front edge and into the giant TNT hole below. Quackity glances down at it as he passes.

It takes a second for him to register what he’s seen.

He blinks, backtracks, and stares down at a familiar horned figure laying just on the edge of the stage.

Quackity swallows, and it hurts his throat, but his mouth feels just a bit cleaner.

Weakly, he calls out, “Schlatt?”

The only response is the crackling fire.

“Schlatt,” he says again, limping closer to his President’s still form, pushing aside the debris in his way. He doesn’t kneel so much as his legs simply give out, dropping him onto the ground next to Schlatt’s body.

“C’mon man, we gotta get out.”

Schlatt doesn’t move.

Quackity’s breaths rattle in his chest.

“Hey, man, wake up,” he says, reaching out hesitantly to shake Schlatt’s shoulder, who still _doesn’t move._ “Please.”

Desperately, he holds two fingers to Schlatt’s wrist, feeling for something, anything. When that fails, he drops his head to Schlatt’s chest to listen, and when he still can’t hear anything but the popping of flames, he chokes on something awfully close to a sob.

A wave of emotion pushes up against the floodgates he’s thrown up in his mind, the events of the day catching up to him now. Schlatt’s _dead_ . He wasn’t a good leader, not to Quackity and not to Manburg - _L’Manburg?_ \- but it’s hard to believe that he’s _gone_ , and Quackity wants to cry-

-no. He forces it back. There’ll be time to freak out later.

Taking as deep a breath as he can manage, he slowly stands. His legs shake underneath him like he’s a newborn deer, and he knows he’s not going to be able to carry Schlatt’s - Schlatt’s _body_ \- out of the rubble.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

(Quackity’s apologized to Schlatt before, usually when the President got mad at him for being useless. Each and every one has been empty; each and every one has fueled the quiet ooze of… something, in his chest.)

(He thinks that this is the first time he’s apologized to Schlatt and meant it.)

The White House stands tall ahead of him, one final ray of hope. Quackity does his best to shove all his thoughts and emotions out of his head - he has to, he has to focus on just _moving forward_.

Slowly, painfully, he limps his way across the knoll out front of the White House. Everything after finding Schlatt is just a giant blur - his quiet journey feels like it simultaneously takes a thousand years and no time at all. 

The quartz that makes up the door frame is more grey than white, stained by the ash and soot in the air. Quackity’s hand leaves a dark smear across it as he flings the door open.

Inside, the air quality is far better - the windows are by no means airtight, but they still act as a decent buffer against the outside. Quackity finds that he’s able to finally take a decent breath as he slams the door shut behind him.

He doesn’t bother going in any further than the entrance hallway, doesn’t think he could if he tried. His back hits the wall, and as he slides down it, he leaves a streak of blood and ash behind him.

Weakly, he coughs, tipping his head back and thumping his chest. Slowly, he becomes aware of the aching in his leg again - he must have been subconsciously ignoring it, he realizes. 

The pain isn’t all that comes back. Those floodgates of emotion start to lower.

Quackity hacks out another breath, and he realizes that he’s crying.

Manburg is gone, _Schlatt_ is gone, and Quackity’s left all alone with nothing to his name but an empty White House and a pile of rubble. He’s president now, he realizes, and with that realization comes a wave of gasping-sobbing laughter. 

Quackity buries his face in his hands.

God, all he had ever wanted was a calm, peaceful, welcoming L’Manburg.

Where did it go wrong?


	2. saint calvin told me not to worry about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quackity runs into the first (alive) person he's seen since the explosion. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anotha one!
> 
> i don't have much to say in the notes this time, actually. i know that's rare for me LMAO.
> 
> there's one thing actually!!! i wrote and posted a tommy-centric fic a few days ago that u can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27952940  
> make sure u read the tags there's some heavy stuff in there :) but i am very proud of it and it's about to break 2000 hits so !!! if you like my writing and the angst from the current exile arc, pls feel free to read that :D
> 
> i hope you enjoy :)

Quackity sits in the front hall for a long while, unable to do anything but stare numbly at the wall opposite him. 

The coatrack is on that side of the doorway; Schlatt’s overcoat hangs on it. He hadn’t worn it to the festival, preferring the sharper look of his suit jacket. Quackity hadn’t bothered to point out that he’d be cold, at the time.

He guesses that it didn’t matter in the end.

Eventually, the unnatural ash-made lighting of the sky outside is replaced with the soft darkness of nighttime. Quackity feels like he’s capable of moving again, the faint fog that hangs over his eyes receding just a bit. Numbly, he guesses he should probably move. Anything has to be more comfortable than the cold quartz floor that he sits on now.

His leg cramps and aches as he stands, but he presses through it. He eyes the stairs up for a second, before realizing that there’s no way he’ll make it all the way to the second floor. That plan scrapped, that leaves the office on the first floor - Schlatt’s office.

The dark oak door is heavy under Quackity’s hand when he swings it open, limping inside. The windows inside are tall, but the curtains are drawn, keeping out any residual light from the fires outside. Quackity’s fine with that.

He catches himself against the nearest surface, desperate to take the weight off his leg, and he ends up leaning against Schlatt’s desk.

Outside, he can hear the door slam open.

Quackity jumps a mile high, head whipping around to stare at the office’s entrance behind him.

“Who’s there?” he calls, and then flinches as he realizes he’s just telegraphed his location to whoever it is.

The person doesn’t respond.

Quackity’s hand pats around the desk, searching for something, _anything_ he can use to defend himself. His shaking fingers close around a smooth object, and he holds it up in front of him.

It’s a letter opener, of all things. He figures it’s better than nothing.

“I’m armed!” he yells, trying desperately to hide how high pitched his voice has gone. “Don’t come near me!”

There’s silence, for a moment, and then a black blur bursts through the office door, and Quackity yelps as Wilbur grabs him by the collar and shoves him against the wall. The letter opener goes clattering to the ground.

 _He’s holding a sword,_ Quackity realizes, faintly.

“Hello, Quackity,” Wilbur hums. “Long time no see, ay?” He laughs, a sharp grin cut across his face. “I bet you’re regretting that fucking coalition deal now, aren’t you.”

Wilbur’s so much different than the last time Quackity saw him. He looks messy, hair rumpled and limp, bags weighing deep under his eyes, clothes ripped and dirty. This Wilbur has almost nothing in common to the Wilbur that had stood tall and proud in his uniform, even as he was chased out of his own country.

This Wilbur is _dangerous._

“Where’s Schlatt?” Wilbur asks, and Quackity flounders. He doesn’t like the darkness in Wilbur’s voice, doesn’t like the feral glint to his eyes.

Wilbur’s voice raises into a shout. _“Where’s Schlatt?”_

Flinching, Quackity tries desperately to answer, his voice cracking traitorously.

“He’s - he’s dead.” 

“No, no, no,” Wilbur says, and his voice has a dangerous edge to it that Quackity does not like. “That’s - That’s not possible.” His eyes narrow. “You’re lying. You have to be lying.”

Quackity winces as the edge of Wilbur’s sword digs further into his neck. He squints his eyes shut, trying to retreat further back against the wall. “I’m not! I swear I’m not!”

“Where is he?” Wilbur’s not yelling, not anymore, but the way he’s talking now, low and dark and threatening, is infinitely scarier. “Schlatt has to be alive. I _know_ he’s alive. I won’t ask again.”

“I’m telling the truth, I promise,” Quackity squeaks. He risks a glance up at Wilbur, heart rabbiting in his chest.

For a moment, looking up at Wilbur, sword drawing blood from his skin, he thinks he’s going to die.

And then, the pressure on his neck lets up, and he sags forward, gasping for breath, hand massaging his throat.

When Quackity looks up, his limbs freeze up all over again.

In front of him is Technoblade, holding Wilbur at arm’s length. As he watches, eyes wide, Techno plucks the iron sword from Wilbur’s grasp, holding it at his side.

“Technoblade, _let go of me,_ ” Wilbur hisses, swatting at his brother’s arm. “I need to - I need to find Schlatt, I need to-”

Techno huffs, not letting up. “No.”

Wilbur scowls. “Let go of me _right now_. That’s an order from your-”

He goes limp in Techno’s grasp. The pig in question tosses Wilbur’s sword to the side of the room, the pommel having served well as a blunt weapon.

“Well,” Techno says, and his tone is flat, unreadable. “Long time no see, Quackity.”

Shakily, Quackity nods. He can feel his wings quivering behind him, and he urges them to be still. It doesn’t work.

The last time he’d talked to Technoblade had been before either of them moved into the SMP. Quackity had been young, had thought he was hot shit, and had signed up for a tournament that promised a high reward for winning.

If it weren’t traumatizing, it’d be almost funny how quickly Technoblade had been able to cut him down on the battlefield.

The SMP was supposed to be a new start.

(The SMP was supposed to be a lot of things, in retrospect.)

“Heyy, ‘Blade,” he says, plastering a weak smile on his face. Rambling has always been his best defense mechanism, and so he presses on. “How’re the - uh - potatoes? Doing well, I hope?”

Techno looks at him weirdly. “...Yeah.”

“Good, good.”

Quackity and Techno stare at each other for a long moment.

“Alright, well… I’m going to go, then,” Techno says, gesturing at the door. He turns to leave, and then looks back for a second, pointing at Quackity’s broken leg. “You’re gonna want to splint that.” It… sounds like far less of a threat than Quackity would expect, coming from him.

And with that, Techno’s gone, the sound of his retreating hoofsteps followed by the front door to the White House creaking shut.

Quackity waits a few moments for good measure, and then he finally lets his guard down, the fake smile slipping right off his face.

It’s only a two-step journey to the desk, thankfully. Quackity doesn’t think his leg could handle any more than that; now that he’s had not one, but two adrenaline crashes, it hurts even more than it did before.

He collapses into Schlatt’s old chair. It smells of alcohol, making his nose wrinkle, but it’s better than the floor. The desk is covered in paperwork, mostly, but a half-empty beer bottle or two dot the edges. Quackity shoves it all aside, letting the papers flutter to the ground to join the letter opener and the sword on the carpet below.

He buries his head in his arms atop the smooth wooden desk. It’s cold against his forehead, and he lets that ground him as he squeezes his eyes shut.

It feels like it’s been a hundred years since he woke up, even though it can’t have been more than a couple hours at most. With a start, he realizes that he has so many things he needs to do; he needs to survey the damages, he needs to arrange a burial or something for Schlatt, and he’ll have to deal with Wilbur at some point. 

He doesn’t even know where to start. The explosion doesn’t even feel _real_ , still. Were it not for the aching in his leg, he’d think it was all just a bad dream.

The world burns outside, and eventually, Quackity is going to need to take charge. For now, though, he’s content to just sit here, his head in his arms.


	3. what i will always be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first step to survival is to get moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm!!
> 
> ok so this is chapter 3 out of 4, now. it got a bit too long so. yes LMAO. have a bit of (meaningful) filler in the meantime!!
> 
> no beta this time 😳 insert funny reference about thing that is going wrong in current dsmp canon
> 
> MILD CW FOR MENTIONS OF ALCOHOLISM!!! nothing worse than canon for sure it's literally like a couple throwaway lines
> 
> i hope you enjoy!!!! will see you when i update next <333

There isn’t much in the way of medical supplies in the White House.

Quackity finds that out when he’s rifling through the cabinets around Schlatt’s office. It makes sense, in retrospect; why would the president bother to stock up on bandages and gauze when he could barely bother to take care of the rest of the country? 

That doesn’t stop him from sighing in disappointment when all he can scrounge up is a few half-empty bottles hidden in the back of a tall cabinet behind Schlatt’s desk.

He almost considers taking one, for a moment; his leg fucking  _ hurts _ , after all, and it looks like he’s gonna have to go searching for anything useful. But, as his hand hovers over one of the tall bottles, he remembers Schlatt, drunk out of his mind and nearly catatonic, unable to even sign his own name at the bottom of a fucking piece of paperwork.

So, in the end, Quackity just ends up closing the cabinet, leaving the beer out of sight and out of mind.

The office doesn’t have anything else of value, and he shudders as he realizes he might have to make the journey up the stairs to look on the second and third floors. It’s that, or give up and make do with anything he can find on the first floor.

Either way, the first step is leaving the office.

He stumbles to the doorway, and then pauses, turning back for just a second to scoop Wilbur’s sword up from where it lies on the ground. He’s not sure why he takes it, but just holding it comforts him a bit, makes him feel safer. The hilt is uncomfortable to hold; his hands are sweaty and he’s not particularly used to holding a weapon. 

It almost immediately ends up being handy when he stumbles and manages to catch himself with it, stopping himself from faceplanting onto the ground. Having something to lean his weight on is really helpful, actually.

It’s just a bit too short to be a proper walking stick, meaning that Quackity has to bend down at an awkward angle to get any use out of it, but it’s still better than walking on his leg. A bit of back pain and a cut-up carpet are worth the benefits.

The only other room on the first floor is the bathroom. The door is already ajar, and so Quackity shoves it open, stumbling inside.

He surveys the countertop opposite the toilet, first of all. There’s nothing there but a bar of soap and a small, grimy mirror that’s definitely seen better days. Praying, he leans down, throwing the cabinet under the sink open. The edge of the counter makes for a much better support than the sword.

Quackity lets out a sigh. All that’s inside is a couple spare towels and a layer of dust. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to make it up the stairs at this point.

Reluctantly, he takes the towels; they’re better than nothing. Now, he just needs a place to sit.

The bathroom is small and claustrophobic, and so Quackity inches back out the door, easing himself onto the ground just outside. Time to take care of his leg, finally.

It’s only now, with all the materials sitting in front of him, that he realizes he has no fucking clue how to do this.

Tubbo had been the one around the White House with all the medical knowledge. He had been the one to force Schlatt to drink water when he’d had too much, he’d been the one to patch Quackity up when he’d gotten in a fight with Niki and came out the worse for wear.

Quackity hadn’t ever had to learn. So, he didn’t.

(Schlatt would’ve called him useless for that. Can’t fight, can’t patch up a bruise.)

Now that he’s thinking of Tubbo, he realizes he doesn’t know where the kid is. Frowning, he forces down the worry rolling fiercely in his heart. He can go looking after he gets this done.

Back on track: Quackity needs to be able to see his leg.

He takes the sword, now past its use as a pseudo-walking-stick, and he uses it to cut the last bits of his pant leg off just above the knee. The fabric is already tattered, barely holding on to the rest of his slacks, and it comes away in an awkward tangled mess.

Now that that’s done, he’s brought to a pause again, and he has to think for a second, trying desperately to remember what he knows about first aid.

He should probably set it, he thinks; having it heal at that angle probably wouldn’t be good.

Gingerly, Quackity prods at his leg, wincing as the touch aggravates it.  _ This is gonna hurt like a bitch _ , he thinks, bracing himself.

His vision whites out for a second as he does his best to shove his bone back in place.

When he comes back down, he’s panting and sweating from the sheer effort of that simple action, wings and limbs shaking. It takes him a long time to scrape himself back into something functional.

(Maybe he regrets not taking the liquor, just a little bit.)

His leg is straight now, though, and so that’s the hardest part over. From there, he just has to wrap his leg up to keep it in place. He does that with relative ease; despite the awkward angle and the slight contortionism he has to commit to in order to get it done, it’s at least not painful.

With that, he’s finally taken care of it. He tries to stand - his makeshift bandages don’t do anything to add support, because of course they don’t.

_ Guess you’re still useful, _ he thinks wryly, looking at the sword on the ground next to him.  _ Makes one of us. _

Now that he’s done the absolute basics of caring for his leg, it is actually a bit easier to walk. Quackity’s getting used to the pain, too, he thinks; it’s a lot easier to make his way back to the entrance of the White House.

There’s still a giant, disgusting smear of blood and ash on the ground where Quackity had wallowed, earlier. Equally disgusting footsteps lead further into the house, three sets of dress shoes and boots and hooves layered over each other. He steps past it without anything but a passing glance.

Quackity pauses for a moment at the front door. He takes a breath, and then throws it open, stepping back out into the world.


	4. make me love myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quackity gets patched up and has his first (positive) human interaction since the explosion.

The air outside is still full of ash, making it hard for Quackity to breathe. He makes it through a couple short coughing fits before he finally concedes, pulling the lapel of his suit jacket up over his nose. Walking’s going to be a bit awkward, with one hand on his sword-turned-walking-stick and the other holding up his makeshift mask, but it’s better than choking on the air itself.

It’s fully night, by now; the fevered sun has been replaced with the flickering light of the few fires that still have the fuel to keep going. Quackity’s quietly grateful for it. At least they’re good for something.

The whole of Manburg lies before him; Quackity just has to figure out where to go.

He studiously keeps his eyes away from the rubble of the stage. Even as he tries his best not to think of it, his brain supplies the thoughts to him anyway.

Schlatt was never the best of leaders. It had taken Quackity some time to figure that out - he’d been just as charmed as everyone else by Schlatt’s promises at first. But, he’d seen the way Tubbo looked uncomfortable in his suit, and he’d noticed the cold, still, awkward air that permeated all of Manburg, and he’d heard Niki’s cries when the flag first went down.

Even now though, he still doesn’t quite want to give up on Schlatt, even with his body cooling outside, not even 50 feet away. It feels wrong to speak ill of the dead, of a young man who, despite his faults, died before his time.

Quackity can deal with that later, though. (It’s always _later, later, later._ It’s fine.)

He takes a shuddering inhale, and he grimaces as the fabric reflects his own breath back onto his face. Gross.

The first thing he does is scout the area directly around the White House - it’s the easiest terrain to reach. There isn’t much to find, though, aside from a few stray rocks.

So, Quackity turns his attention down the hill.

It’s… bad, down there. He remembers what it had looked like earlier, and the darkness of night and the long shadows make the now-unfamiliar terrain look harsher. Is that a chunk of stone, or is it Tommy, coming to finish the job Wilbur started? Is that a broken fencepost, or is it Schlatt, miraculously alive and ready to scream at Quackity for his failures?

He does his best to shake the feeling off as quickly as possible, slowly making his way back to the place he’d woken up. That’s as good a place to start as any.

There’s a light, in the distance. Quackity’s eyes glance over it, at first; it’s probably just another fire, still going on some last scraps of already burnt wood.

Except - no. The light bobs up and down, slowly coming closer and closer. It’s a lantern.

“Hello?” he calls, hacking on a cough. The distant lantern-light stops dead in its tracks, and then someone calls back.

“Hello!” The voice is distinctly feminine, dotted with a slight accent. It’s Niki.

“I’m over here!” Quackity yells again, despite the way his voice twinges in protest. He waves frantically, hoping that there’s just enough light for her to spot him amongst the rubble.

There must be, because before he knows it, she’s close enough for him to see _her_ , not just her lantern. There’s a mask (a proper one, not a pulled-up shirt like Quackity has) covering the bottom half of her face. Her hair is mussed and windblown, and the lantern light throws long shadows across her eyes.

Quackity hasn’t seen her in so long.

He remembers the last time they talked _very_ vividly. It… hadn’t gone well, to say the least.

He’d been sent to collect her taxes (and wasn’t that ridiculous in and of itself; the Vice President doing the dirty work?) She’d protested, had asked him _why_. He hadn’t had an answer. (He still doesn’t have one.)

Quackity had snapped, had told her that _clearly_ Schlatt was what was best for the country if everyone had voted for him. Was she still just angry over such a small, petty thing as her flag? Because if so, maybe she should _grow up_. Maybe that was why she couldn’t play with the big kids in the government.

Niki’d punched him hard enough that he saw stars.

(As Tubbo cleaned the blood off his face an hour later, Quackity had quietly asked the kid to tell her he was sorry.)  
  
(His lip scarred, in the end. Schlatt yelled at him for failing to enforce the taxes. Tubbo said she forgave him.)

All that to say that this time, Quackity did not intend on a repeat.

“Hey, Niki,” he says, sending her a bone-tired smile of relief. It’s good to see a friendly face.

She smiles back. “Hello to you too, Quackity.”

Pleasantries over with (some things really do never change, do they?), Niki raises an arm up, reaching a hand out to Quackity. “Come down,” she tells him. “Are you hurt?”

Quackity shifts, laughing dryly as his leg protests the movement. “Nothing I can’t walk off.”

Niki frowns. “My bakery survived the blast. I’ve been looking for people to send them back there.” If her implications weren’t already clear, she beckons him towards her with her already-outstretched hand. “You’ll be safe there.”

For a moment, Quackity is tempted to turn her down. But, he sees the determination in her eyes, and his leg decides that that’s the perfect time to send another wave of dull, aching pain through his bones, and so he carefully climbs down the short hill to meet her at its bottom.

He stumbles as his feet hit the relatively flat ground.

“Lead the way,” he says, ignoring the concerned look Niki’s giving him.

The walk back to the bakery is silent. Niki picks her way across the rubble, and Quackity does his best to follow. They have to pause multiple times so that Niki help him past several pieces of debris that are too tricky to traverse, but eventually, they’re making their way down the wooden path that leads to the beach.

“I found someone!” Niki calls, her voice carrying over the sound of the little bell above the bakery’s front door. She lays a gentle hand on Quackity’s elbow, steering him into the kitchen.

Standing by the table, paws deep in an open medkit, is Fundy.

Quackity’s not _surprised_ , per se, to see him here. Fundy’s always been close to Niki - hell, they ran for government together. It takes a lot of trust to ask someone to be your Vice President, even if it’s misplaced in the end. (George didn’t even show up to the festival, in the end.)

“Hey, Quackity,” Fundy says, and he looks vaguely nervous. Quackity remembers that he’s still wearing his Schlatt-issued suit, recognizable despite the ash and dirt staining it. (He remembers the way Schlatt told everyone that association with Niki was a declaration of traitorism.)

“Hey,” he says back, flashing a weary smile in Fundy’s direction. Fundy relaxes just a little bit.

“C’mon, sit,” Niki says, pushing Quackity into a chair. She looks up at Fundy. “I’m gonna go back to look for other people. Check his left leg for me, please?”

With that, she turns back around, ducking around the corner of the kitchen entrance. The doorbell rings again as she leaves.

“It’s not that bad,” Quackity protests, even as Fundy kneels down and starts unwrapping the makeshift bandage around his calf. Fundy ignores him in favor of actually looking for himself.

“Eesh,” he hisses, peering at Quackity’s leg. “That... is a bit worse than ‘not that bad’, I’ll be honest.”

Quackity laughs dryly. “Yeah, it… hurts like a bitch,” he admits.

“I can see why.” Fundy gently unwraps the towel the rest of the way, setting it on Niki’s kitchen table and picking up a bowl of water and a cloth instead. “You had the right idea with setting it and wrapping it but a splint would’ve been ideal, especially with the way you were walking around on it.” He pauses. “Why the fuck _were_ you walking around?”

Quackity… doesn’t know. He supposes he didn’t wanna be left a sitting duck (hah), all alone in a big, cold, empty White House. It’s not like it was a big deal to leave; he’d taken breaks between movements. Plus, it’s not like he’s not used to walking off injuries, albeit never one as bad as a broken bone. Since Tubbo… There hasn’t been anyone who Quackity trusts to patch up scrapes for a while, is his point.

There’s too much there to unpack in a simple response, and he’s tired. He shrugs instead.

Fundy narrows his eyes at him. “Well, please don’t do it again.” Quackity’s eyes follow his paws as he starts to wrap gauze back around the wound and the straight piece of wood he’s held there as a makeshift splint. It’s a slow, tedious process, and it takes far longer than the five or so minutes Quackity had taken on his own medical care.

He tears the gauze off, tucking the end underneath the rest of it, and then he gently pats Quackity’s knee as he stands again. “You’re on bedrest for a couple weeks at least. I can look at it again then.”

At that, Quackity groans melodramatically, slumping back in his chair. “That’s so _long_.”

“Sucks,” Fundy responds, a slight teasing grin in his voice. “C’mon, I can help you lay down on Niki’s couch.”

He extends a paw down to Quackity, who takes it gratefully, pulling himself up onto his feet (or, well, foot, singular). Fundy wraps an arm around Quackity’s back, blessedly minding the wings. Quackity can’t count the number of times someone (usually Schlatt) has patted him on the back or clapped him on the shoulder, crushing a feather or two under a (hooved) grip.

Gently, Fundy sets him down on the sofa. Quackity sighs as he lays down. This must be the most comfortable thing he’s ever felt.

“Y’need anything, just let me know,” Fundy says, and Quackity gives him a tired thumbs-up, his eyes falling shut. He barely registers the soft padding of Fundy’s pawsteps as he leaves the room; he’s already half-asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we r!!! the end of big q's pov.....
> 
> this series is my longest project EVER and we are maybe 1/3 or 1/4 of the way through... this is . crazy to me but i love it sm. (it's also the longest-running project i've had... i've been motivated to work on it for like 3 months straight which is . crazy.)
> 
> thank you for sticking with me. i knwo the premise of this au is ~3 months out of date but i think i'm going somewhere Good with this. 
> 
> tubbo's pov should be next :,)
> 
> thank you for reading!!!! i hope you have a wonderful day. <33


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